Skeletons in the Mist (The McCall Twins) (2 page)

He stood up slowly, his head shaking as he made
the mistake of letting his mind think about how sweet the old woman had been—and how caring. She’d been taking care of her young nephews for six years now, since the death of her brother, Hank, who had selfishly ended his own life, leaving his young sons orphans. From the time the boys were small, she’d raised them as her own, doting on them and giving them what had appeared to be nothing but love and affection.

That was why it was so shocking that Devon Tavish, only fourteen years old, had been found holding the murder weapon and huddling in a corner of the living room, nearly catatonic, when police had arrived on the scene. Devon’s twelve-year-old brother, Dylan, had been the person who called the police and reported that his brother had shot his aunt. Now neither boy was talking. Dylan was sitting silently on a chair in the kitchen, his blue eyes staring into space. Devon was handcuffed and sitting in a cruiser out front, his stony expression full of hate and rebellion. At least he was no longer catatonic. That had ended the moment the police had slapped handcuffs on him.
He wasn’t denying anything. In fact, he was being downright obstinate. He’d kicked, screamed and cursed upon being arrested. But he hadn’t denied that he’d murdered his aunt.

With dark hair and blue eyes, both of the boys were rough around the edges. Neither had nicely trimmed hair, instead wearing their tresses down to their shoulders in a messy tangle. They were decent looking enough, with cleanly sculpted features and clear skin. Devon had likely started shaving recently and obviously was going for the scruffy, five o’clock shadow look, if you could call it that. It was more peach fuzz than stubble.

Both boys had interesting reputations. Chas had seen them at the station more than once for various minor indiscretions, such as smoking pot and vandalism. Devon Tavish had been accused of being a peeping tom as well. As much love as Myra had given her nephews, it had apparently fallen on deaf ears. The boys definitely attracted the wrong kind of attention for themselves. But nobody had anticipated anything like this.

“Little shit almost bit me.” Chas looked over at
his younger brother, Josh, who had ushered Devon Tavish out to his police cruiser just a few moments earlier, and none too easily.

Like all the McCall men, Josh had light brown hair and blue-gray eyes. He was a tough cop, and most likely next in line for a promotion with the department. Chas was proud to work with him.

“Younger one still in the kitchen?” Chas spoke thoughtfully, his gaze landing back on what was left of Myra Tavish.

“He’s the one who tried to bite me. He’s a vicious little shit.” Josh indicated toward the front yard. “He’s in another cruiser. I’ve got Henshaw watching them both.”

“I’ll need this secured. Can you help Trace while I talk to the boys?”

“They aren’t being very chatty. Younger kid’s changing his story now. Says he’s not sure what happened.”

Chas raised a brow. “I thought he called in the incident. From what I was briefed, he already told the dispatcher that his brother shot his aunt.”

Josh shrugged. “He’s not saying that anymore.
He told me to fuck off.”

“Nice.” Chas looked at Myra again, then cursed. “Something isn’t right here. We have no other witnesses?”

“Not that I know of. There are a lot of lookie-loos outside. Maybe one of them saw something useful.”

“I’ll handle that. Just help Trace out and catch up with me outside.”

Chas hit the front porch, ignoring the throngs of neighbors and nosy onlookers as he headed down the steps and walked over to the first police cruiser parked in the driveway. Thankfully the rain had subsided for now.

He looked in the back window and saw twelve-year-old Dylan Tavish hunched over in the back seat. The boy didn’t look sure of himself at all. He looked scared. But then he didn’t realize he was being watched. Chas indicated to the officer at the car to unlock the back door. When it was open, he crouched down and faced the young boy, his brow raised in question.

“You wanna tell me what went on here, Dylan?
Were you home when your aunt was shot?”

Dylan didn’t answer. Instead, he turned his head and looked out the opposite window of the cruiser. Chas could see the boy’s hands shaking. And he couldn’t blame the kid for being scared. Hell, his brother had basically been arrested and his aunt was dead. Things were looking bleak for him.

“I understand you’re scared. We’ll work this out but I need you to tell me what happened in there.”

“I ain’t scared of you,” the kid said, his head turning abruptly. He glared over at Chas, a lock of long, stringy hair falling over his left eye. He shoved it away angrily. “I’ve got no reason to be afraid.”

The sweat breaking out on Dylan’s forehead said otherwise, but Chas didn’t point that out. Instead, he let out a sigh. “You called the police earlier this evening. Dispatch says you gave them your name and said your brother shot your aunt. Is that true?”

Dylan didn’t answer. He just stared straight ahead. The kid was full of rebellion. Typical of a kid that age, Chas figured. Not only that, he didn’t exactly have the best role model in his brother.
Devon was older and angrier than he was. Chas had suspicions about whether or not the elder boy was into drugs. There had been some rumors.

“I just tried to get help for my aunt,” Dylan said suddenly, a hint of defiance still evident in his voice. “I don’t remember what I said. Devon didn’t do nothing.”

“Did you see your brother shoot your aunt?”

Dylan rubbed one of his palms against the denim of his jeans, then shrugged his shoulders before answering, “No.”

Well, that was that, Chas thought, and stood up straight. He let the door shut on the cruiser and turned to the officer in charge. Caleb Henshaw rested his arm on top of the cruiser and shook his head in disgust. “Both of those kids need a good ass kicking. The other one’s pretty violent so be careful about him.”

“Will do. Get Social Services. This one will belong to the state until we figure out who his next of kin is.”

“Done. You want me to book the other one?”

“I’ll handle him. Just get him to the station.” A
thought occurred to Chas and he grabbed Henshaw’s arm before he had the chance to completely turn around. “They have a half-sister. I remember her vaguely. Roxanne, I think. See what you can find out in the house.”

Henshaw nodded and Chas headed over to where his other brother, Trace, stood talking with some neighbors. Each one of these lookie-loos, as Josh had called them, would have to be questioned and that was going to take a while. People tended to sensationalize in times of crisis and it would take even more time to decipher the dramatic exaggerations from the actualities. This was going to be a long night.

TWO

Roxy Tavish was running late again. She knew her boss was going to let her have it this time. She’d been stuck in traffic for the first twenty minutes of her lunch hour, and pushing her now broken down VW bug to the side of the freeway for the last forty minutes of it. The sixty minutes after her lunch hour, she’d spent pacing the highway, waiting for the godforsaken tow truck to show up and get the thing away from the express lanes so the angry drivers threatening to kill her could get by and move on their way.

She’d counted seventeen middle fingers in the amount of time she’d leaned against the guardrail. Fifteen other people hadn’t bothered using the finger and had just used their foul mouths.

Deflated, she pushed open the glass doors to the newspaper office she’d worked at for the past six months, and scurried inside. Maybe if she hurried,
Mr. Litowski wouldn’t notice she was late. Quickly, she headed for her cubicle and slid into her chair.

“You’re up shit creek.” Myles Overby, her co-worker, stuck his head over the top of her cubicle, his normally jubilant green eyes filled with worry. “Just a warning. Litowski’s on the war path.”

She cursed, then thanked him for the warning, before digging through her phone messages. There were four of them. She was puzzled by the name on the pink slips. It was the same name on each one—Detective Chas McCall. His phone number was scrawled in masculine writing across the bottom of the first slip. She skimmed through the next three messages, which were much the same as the first.

Chas McCall
. She let the name flow through her brain. Why did it sound so familiar?

“Where the hell have you been?”

Hearing her boss’s angry voice, she cringed. Was there any point in making an excuse this time? After all, just days ago, when she’d been late the last time, he had warned her she’d be fired if she was late again. Even
one minute late
, he’d said. She checked her watch. She was one hour and twenty-
three minutes late. She was screwed, in other words.

“Where are the papers I asked you to type up? I have an editorial deadline here and I needed those freaking papers two hours ago.” Byron Litowski’s round face glared down into her cubicle like a dark cloud roaming into the sky on a sunny day.

If it weren’t for the extra fifty or sixty pounds he carried around on his five-foot-ten-inch frame, he might have been an attractive man. Of course, there was that comb over thing he did on his head, she reminded herself, frowning. And that thick pile of chest hair that always seemed to peek through the top of his shirt, no matter how high his collar was or how tight the buttons on it were.

“Are you in there?” Litowski growled angrily. “I warned you, Tavish. I’ve given you more than one chance to redeem yourself—”

“My car broke down on the freeway. I swear it. I had to wait for a tow truck,” she interrupted quickly. “I have a police statement and everything. It was completely not my fault.”

“I warned you before to get a new car,” Litowski
snapped. “Dependable transportation is a must around here. We have deadlines.”

“I understand that. But if you could just—”

“Where are the papers I asked you to type up? I need them.” He gave her a glare that told her arguing wasn’t going to help anything.

Digging through the paperwork on her desk, she pulled out a stack of freshly typed pages, that unfortunately, due to the klutziness of whoever had sat at her desk over lunch, now had coffee stains bled into them.

Litowski cursed again as he noticed the brown stains on the papers. “It figures. Nevermind.” He turned and stalked off, so angry that the back of his neck was as red as his face had been. When he was gone, Myles poked his head over the top of the cubicle again.

“Bad?”

“He didn’t fire me,” Roxy said, smiling halfway. “Yet anyway.” She gestured to the pile of messages on her desk. “Do you know who answered my phone while I was gone?”

Myles sat on a corner of her desk, sipping
through a straw on a water bottle. “I did for about twenty minutes. Then one of the temps. Why?”

“Someone spilled coffee everywhere. And I’m not sure what these messages are.”

“I don’t know about the coffee. I took two of the messages though. Persistent one, that guy.” Myles grinned halfway. “Sounded pretty sexy though.”

Roxy rolled her eyes.

When she’d first started work at the Chronicle, Myles and his overpowering sexuality had taken her by surprise. After all, at first look, Myles, in a word, could be described as stunning. Tall, well-built and dark skinned, Myles had the kind of face that GQ would kill for. His green eyes were friendly and clear. His smile was wide and perfect. It was almost a shame that the women of the world had been robbed of the chance to experience the joy of being with a man of such beautiful proportions. But Myles was one hundred percent homosexual, as he said in his own words.

“So did you call him back? He said the call was important,” Myles prodded.

“I haven’t had time. It’s probably concerning my
car. I shut traffic down in the express lanes again. I’m probably going to be fined this time. Is it a crime to block traffic when your car is disabled?”

Myles gave her a sympathetic smile. “I don’t think so, but who knows? I told you to borrow my moped. I rarely have time to ride the thing.”

“I wouldn’t know how to maneuver a moped in city traffic like this. I’d kill myself for sure.” She grimaced as her phone rang. Myles gave a wave and headed away from her desk as she picked up the phone.

“Byron Litowski’s office, Roxy Tavish speaking.”

“Ms. Tavish? This is Detective Chas McCall.”

Roxy frowned instantly. “Yes, Detective McCall. I was just about to call you.”

“Is that right? I’ve left several messages.”

“So you have,” she agreed absently, noticing Litowski’s office door was opening again. She braced herself, while adding, “The car isn’t in the way anymore. It was towed about an hour ago.”

“Pardon?”

“Tavish!” Litowski’s voice seemed to echo inside her skull.

Shutting her eyes, she grimaced at the pain threatening to pound right out of her head. She should have just called in sick today, she thought to herself.

“Look, Ms. Tavish. I think we’re confusing each other here. I’m calling from Cavern Creek, Washington. I’m a detective with the Spokane Police Department. This call is regarding your aunt, Myra Tavish.”

Roxy felt the breath leave her lungs. It had been awhile since she had talked to her aunt—more than a year. They had mostly been keeping in touch through letters. A strange feeling of dread made its way into her chest. “Has something happened to Aunt Myra?”

The other end of the line was quiet for a moment and she almost thought she’d lost the connection. Then she heard his voice again, and wished she hadn’t. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you,” he said, confirming her fears. “Your aunt passed away last night.”

A tightness formed in Roxy’s chest. She hadn’t seen her aunt in several years. Ten, to be exact. She
felt an overwhelming pain in her chest and struggled to breathe.

“Ms. Tavish?”

“I heard you,” she finally managed to say. “Can you give me a minute here?”

“Absolutely. I apologize for having to give you devastating news like this over the phone.”

She took several deep breaths before asking her next question. “What happened?”